Survival Value
by Shazrolane
Summary: Circus headliner Clint Barton, aka The Amazing Hawkeye, is alone and on the run in a world that's gone to hell and zombies. He's got no back up, no team, no supplies and no bow. Oh, and he's deaf.


Chapter 1 Shadows and Flame  
Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art…It has no survival value, rather it is one of those things that give value to survival. ~ C. S. Lewis

Clint had woken up with a start when the ancient camper started to shudder and shake. He looked out the window. All he could see was darkness punctuated by flames. He grabbed his bow but before he could sling the quiver over his back someone – no, something - appeared in the open door. It looked like a person, but with blood red eyes, grey skin with purple and blue bruising all over, and a horrible, rotted smell. The creature's eyes locked on him almost immediately and it rushed at him. He got off one arrow into the chest but that didn't even slow the thing down as it staggered toward him.

He smacked the reaching arms away with his bow, but with the walls of the camper so close he couldn't get in a good swing. He was able to keep the bony fingers from grabbing him but it just kept coming forward. He jabbed the tip of the bow into the monster's face. The head rocked back then returned to its normal position, the mouth open hungrily. The jab of his bow to its face had actually torn some skin and muscle, which hung down in a flap across the corner of its mouth, but it made no acknowledgement of the wound. He kicked out and broke its knee, which caused the rotted thing to stumble for a brief moment, then it pulled itself up on the other leg and continued to move forward, dragging the injured leg.  
He did everything he could think of to keep the nightmare at a distance, but it was a losing fight. Injuries that would have quickly disabled him only slowed it down for seconds. This thing also didn't fight like any human opponent he'd ever faced. When a normal person would have dodged or ducked and then thrown a blow in return, this creature simply took the hit and tried to grab him. It also had a longer reach, forcing him to retreat more often than not. He only had room for a few stumbling steps in retreat before he hit the tiny table and fell, his back landing on the table and his feet losing purchase on the ground. It leapt onto him crushing him down and trapping both his arms and his bow. The combination of its weight and the putrid smell drove his breath out of his body.

He braced one leg on the back of the bench and shoved with all of his might, managing to turn them just enough to allow him to slither down onto the floor, abandoning his bow in the process. He left his quiver behind as well as he raced to the door. In a practiced move, he grabbed the edge of the door frame and used his momentum to swing himself up to grab the top of the roof. He flipped his feet over his head in a move he had learned from the acrobats and rolled up onto the roof just as his attacker burst out of the door, looking for him. His vertical escape seemed to have confused it, and it looked around for a bit before joining others who were eating something on the ground. He cursed silently when he saw his bow tangled around one of the monster's arms.

It seemed that despite all of the precautions they had taken, the rotters had over run the camp. Clint didn't know if there had been an alarm call but if there was one he'd missed it. His brother was supposed to wake him. The feeling of betrayal washed over him and he silently cursed himself. A part of him, the little brother that had always looked up to Barney, worried and wondered where his brother was, wanted to go looking. But the larger part of him, the part that had seen foster parent after foster parent walk away, school after school label him incorrigible, that part told him that he had been cut loose once again.

If the sentries were gone he was fucked. Either the rotters were getting smart and had snuck up on them, or the camp guards had been overwhelmed along with the animals. Ever since the disaster outside Milwaukee they'd started tying the dogs and big cats on the camp perimeter, making the predators earn their keep since it was getting harder and harder to feed them. Most of the time the animals just made enough noise to warn the armed sentries, but there had a few memorable fights where the cats had proven their worth. They'd lost most of them and two of the dogs, but it had helped to keep the humans alive as they struggled to find a permanent camp, heading ever further south to avoid the coming winter.

In addition to the sentries, there were always armed patrols within the camp. Their ability to work together and organize had always been the big advantage the circus folk had that had allowed them to survive longer than most other groups. They were organized, used to working together and planning out logistics and supplies for moving and for long camps. Everyone was used to pulling their weight by performing multiple roles and they already knew who their leaders were. They made and practiced plans and on the occasions when they had had to use them, things worked out for the most part.

Now all he saw was chaos. Just like spotlights in the circus, the flames light some things brightly while leaving everything else in shadow. The two elephants were rampaging on the other side of the circled campers with no handlers in sight. The horse trailer was overturned and the cook tent was going up in flames. The smell of burning canvas, wood and petroleum drowned out the usual camp smell of manure. He saw one of the clowns get pulled down from the roof of her vehicle while the strongman fell to an attack from behind. What Clint didn't see was any organized resistance, nor was there any trace of his brother.

He stayed low, laying down on the rickety roof to minimize the likelihood of being seen. He harbored no illusions about the safety of his perch, however. It wouldn't be long before he was seen and suffered the same fate as the clown. He looked desperately for a path of escape, but all he saw were the other trailers, most of them lower to the ground than his ancient vehicle. They were pulled into a circle well away from the trees, to give them best possible line of sight so they wouldn't be caught by surprise. That had been the plan at any rate. Now it simply isolated the campers from any escape into the trees.

As he saw it, he had two choices. Flight didn't seem to be an option, so that left fight or freeze. Everyone he saw fighting was quickly succumbing to the stronger numbers and sheer unstoppable ferocity of their attackers. He was better trained and more skilled with his weapon, but even if he had it, it had proven to be almost worthless. A shot to the chest would drop a normal person but these just shrugged it off. Fighting in the open would give him more of a chance than he'd had back in the camper, but it would also allow them to surround him. He also knew that the old recurve bow wouldn't sustain too many hits before it broke.

The other choice was to get back into the camper, lock the door behind him and hide, hoping he wasn't discovered. Eventually the rotters would move on, after they had killed and eaten everyone else in his circus family. The family of freaks and loners and good people who had taken in the two brothers when no one else would. All he would have to do would be to cower in his hideout and wait for the rotters to run out of living food. That was assuming that they wouldn't smell him out and rip through the flimsy walls of the camper.

Either way, his choice sucked.


End file.
